


All Dolled Up

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: looks to die for [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes has a sweet ass and that's just the cold hard truth, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, assassin reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: When Bucky is called off on a mission right before a special date, you have to exert some patience.





	All Dolled Up

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on tumblr asked for a story based on a criminal working with jewelry, where Bucky promises to get you a pearl necklace. This isn't exactly what they asked for, but hopefully you like it anyway ;-) Enjoy!

“Are you serious?”

You collapse onto your hotel bed, phone clutched tight against your ear. There’s not an ounce of outrage or sarcasm in your voice, just shock. Sadness. Bucky sighs.

“Yeah,” he says mournfully. “New mission just came up.”

“But we had a date,” you say. “And I’m all dolled up and everything.” Then you realize how pathetic you sound. Enough of that. You press your teeth together, force yourself to sound cheery. “Doesn’t SHIELD care about our one-year mark?”

Bucky’s low chuckle is music to your ears—well, ear singular, since he’s already a continent away.

“Apparently not,” he says, less melancholy than before. “But hey—it’s a sting against a jeweler. I’ll get you a diamond necklace, if you like. Something to make up for the delay.”

“I have a diamond necklace,” you tell him. “Remember the blue opera? With the gloves?” You waggle your eyebrows even though he can’t see.

“Y-yeah.” You can hear him shifting, hear that slight cough that means that he’s adjusting his pants. “I remember. I’ll bring you something,” he promises. Voices in the background, and he sighs. “I’m really sorry about this, angel.”

“It’s not your fault, Bucky,” you tell him. You toe off your heels, then curl into a ball, press your hand against your side, and try to imagine it’s him holding you. If you close your eyes, it… it feels…You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, try to pretend…

No, it’s hopeless. You feel Bucky’s absence more strongly than you feel the stiff blanket against your cheek. “These things happen. Who knows, maybe…” You trail off. Is it too much to say that maybe next year, _ you’ll _ be the one sent away? You don’t know. Better safe than sorry—what’s the use of tempting fate? More gently, you finish, “Maybe you’ll finish tomorrow.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, and you can make out someone telling him to hurry up. “Yeah yeah, gimme a minute,” he snaps away from the phone. Then he’s back to you, voice low and gentle. “Angel, I will let you know as soon as I’m done, and I’ll come straight to you.”

“Oh good,” you say lightly. “I’ll let you know where I am. And I’ll try to keep my schedule open for ya.”

A little huff of laughter, and then his voice is a murmur before he hangs up. You lean into his words, smile, sigh.

To the empty air, you murmur back:

“Love you too.”

There’s a whimper from the closet.

You raise your head with a frown. Ah yes. Quite.

A sigh, and then you slink across the carpet. You push open the closet door, push your clothes aside.

There, in the corner, a man bound so tight he’s basically a caterpillar. His wide, bloodshot eyes latch onto you. Tears are caught in his five-o’clock shadow, and he starts to wriggle violently on the floor. You watch with eyebrows raised at his futile attempts until he slumps back into a heap, whatever curses he’s trying to spit at you swallowed by the duct tape over his mouth.

The protein shake you’d given him—with a straw, of course—is a few inches out of his reach. You toe it closer, careful not to topple it. Wouldn’t do to let him starve.

He glares up at you, but you’re not worried. You crouch by him and pat his cheek.

“Shh now, you’ll have to be patient for just a little bit longer.”

He jerks again, makes some wordless noises, but then you shut him back in the dark.

Patience is a virtue.

Bucky told you that.

* * *

Patience is a virtue, but finding out that the honeymoon suite is booked starting tomorrow night is a pain in the ass you weren’t prepared for. You weren’t prepared to get sent a rush job in a different country either.

_ Ugh_.

Still, it’s not like there’s a point in waiting around. Bucky’s perfectly capable of meeting you anywhere, and it’s not like Paris is a _ bad _ place to celebrate. Just… not what you expected.

Oh well. You’ll make do. With Bucky, anywhere can be perfect.

So, you pack your things—the dresses, the shoes, the lingerie, the man—and heave it all downstairs to a waiting taxi.

A few hours, and you’ll be in Paris, and you can work your magic in the City of Love.

* * *

The job in Paris goes south for a full three minutes before you manage to finagle your way to a solid finish. It’s a shame, really—the bloodstains on your protective leggings are _ not _ going to come out in a single wash. At least they’re already black. It hides the blood well.

Or at least, well enough for you to find a dark alley where you can change into the miniskirt in your bag, stuffed there for just this sort of emergency. Bit of an odd look, the track-style jacket, the combat boots, the miniskirt… but it’s eleven at night. It’s not strictly vital to look like a Parisian at this hour in this neighborhood, the crummy part of a crummy arrondissement, with enough cigarette butts and dirty napkins on the street to make avoiding them harder than not.

Still, that’s what the combat boots are for. Not every pair of shoes can be sexy.

You sigh at the thought, pausing to look at the grimy bottom of your shoe. If only.

Anyway, there’s been no word from Bucky. Aside from your own preferences, what’s the use of sexy shoes—anything sexy, for that matter—in love-drenched Paris without him?

A little detour lets you wipe your shoes on the grass on the Champs de Mars, leaving them damp and dewy and most importantly _ clean_. God forbid you track the nastiness of the gutters into your posh hotel, a mere ten minute walk from _ la Tour Eiffel _ herself.

But the concierge only smiles tiredly at you as you trek through the lobby, up a winding staircase, and fish out your keycard.

Then you pause.

The light in your hotel room is on.

Your heartbeat thuds dangerously loud in your chest. Who—why—? There’s a man bound and gagged in your closet—what on earth—

A creak of the doorknob.

You whip out a knife tucked into your jacket pocket, flip it open, and—

“Happy anniversary.”

Blue eyes twinkle at you, a sweet and saucy smile smirks at you, a whole beautiful man waits, dressed as informally as you are. You press your hand to your heart and let out a slow breath.

“Jesus H. Christ, Bucky,” you breath. “Warn a girl next time, huh?” You close your knife, slide it back into your pocket, and then you launch yourself through the door, your duffel bouncing hard against your back but you don’t care, you don’t care one single bit because _ Bucky _ is here, Bucky, your Bucky, his arms squeezing you tight enough to lift you clear off the floor as you bury your face in his neck, your smile so wide your cheeks are already hurting.

Bucky nudges the door shut with his foot, a gentle chuckle reverberating through his t-shirt, through your jacket, settling deep in your heart. He slowly eases you back to the floor, but you don’t move your head from his shoulder. How could you? From here, you can breathe him in, that delicious smell that makes you think _ home_.

“When did you get here?” you mumble into his skin.

“Only forty minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you call? Or text?”

Bucky wriggles until you loosen your hold enough to look at you, really look at you. He’s still smiling, still a bit saucy, still matching you—however unintended—with his gray shirt and black sweats.

“Figured if you were out at this hour, you were busy,” he says.

Fair point.

“Still,” you say. You tilt your head towards the closet, your eyes still fixed on his face. “I would’ve liked my gift to be a surprise.”

Bucky laughs out loud, a proper laugh, one that makes your toes curl in your combat boots. He lifts your duffel from around your shoulders and sets it gently on the floor.

“Oh, is that what that giant worm in there is?”

You stare up at him. “Bucky, don’t you recognize him?”

He blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes aren’t twinkling anymore.

“I can barely see any of him,” he says softly. He studies your face more seriously now. “Who is it?”

You lick your lips. _ Oh god, please let him like it… _

“His name is Orel Morozov.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

“I, um.” You swallow, look at Bucky’s chin. You can’t meet his eyes. “He got on my radar last month, with my job in Kiev. He—he’s former HYDRA. Or current HYDRA. I don’t know for sure. All I know is that he was _ there_, Bucky.” Does he know what you mean by _ there? _ You chance a glance up at the rest of his face; it’s black, serious. “And… he never got his comeuppance for it.”

Bucky’s silence is deafening. His turns his head to stare at the closet door, but says nothing. You twist your hands together, bite your tongue, twitch—

“I don’t know if I did right,” you blurt. “I know what I’d do with him, if I wanted. But… but I thought you should have the right to decide. And—and you have it. Here. I can… I can go. If you want.” You shuffle back one step, another, your eyes stinging. You can’t see.

You get no further.

Bucky buries you in a hug too tight for breathing. This time, _ his _ face is buried in _ your _ neck. Your arms are pinned at your sides, but after a moment you relax as much as you can into his hold, your fingers brushing the loose folds of his shirt until he pulls back enough to let you hug him back.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t responded in any way to your present other than to half-smother you. Better than nothing, perhaps… but is he upset, clinging to you for comfort, or is he grateful? Neither? Both? You card your hands through his hair, mind whirling.

Silence reigns for another minute, though it seems like forever. A minute is an awfully long time, you think.

Finally, Bucky takes a ragged breath. One of his hands cradles the back of your head, the other arm is wrapped snugly around your shoulderblades.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and you hear the feeling in his voice. “Thank you.”

You let out a breath of your own, and hold him a little tighter.

* * *

It’s not quite the reunion you’d imagined. There’s no lace, no silk, no sex. Not yet, anyway—but you push that thought aside. If it comes, it will come. Right now, you and Bucky are lying barefoot in bed, facing each other, hands clasped lightly and one of your ankles between his.

“How long have you been dragging him around?” Bucky asks.

“About a week. Got him a couple days before our anniversary.” You twine your fingers in his metal ones, tracing the lines, the plating. “It was just a half-day detour.”

“Really?” Bucky raises an eyebrow at you and props his head up on his hand. “And how much time did you spend planning your heist?”

A pause. “That’s classified.”

Bucky shakes his head fondly, a smile finally creeping onto his face. “Have I told you I love you recently?”

“Four days ago,” you say promptly. “Hardly recently enough.”

“Well,” Bucky says, shifting closer, “I love you.” He bends his head until you’re drowning in his eyes, his scent, his nearness. “I love you,” he murmurs. His lips brush yours, and tingles spread from your lips to your heart and lower, lower. “I love you.”

His first kiss is feather-light even as his metal hand tightens around yours, drawing you closer. You melt against him, every tension from the day—the issues with work, the moment of terror at your hotel room door, the strangeness of Bucky’s reaction to your gift—rolling away.

“I love you,” you say against his lips.

Your first kiss is firmer, clearer. If he can’t read the _ want _ in the way you press your chest to his, the way you worm your leg further between his…

Well, of course he can. He’s Bucky Barnes, superhero. He can feel it when your pulse races, he can smell it when you crave him, as now.

Yet for some reason he doesn’t give in. He draws back, settles you at a safe distance as he catches his breath, his eyes dark and his smile sweet.

“Not yet,” he says gently. “I have to give you _ your _ gift.”

Your pout is only partially for show. Still, you let Bucky slip away without trying to stop him. You do like gifts, and it’s only fair. You press your thighs together and try not to stare too hard at Bucky’s ass as he bends over a chair and rifles through his backpack.

Of course, Bucky knows. He _ always _knows. He wiggles his bum and winks at you over his shoulder; you can’t help but giggle into your hands. God, how did such a perfect man even exist?

He stands straight, holding something out of sight. No movement for seconds, ticking by… You shift and sit up, impatient and worried all over again.

“Bucky?”

He starts. “Sorry,” he says. He sounds almost _ guilty_.

Enough is enough. You make your way over to him—the whole four steps—and slide your arms around him, your cheek pressed against his shoulderblade.

“You don’t have to give it now,” you tell him. “You’ve taught me a thing or two about patience, y’know.”

The softest chuckle, and then Bucky turns in your arms, your gift behind his back.

“So you know how I was caught up in that last-minute mission?” he starts.

“Mhm?”

“I’d already got you a gift,” he continues. “It’s just back in New York. I didn’t have time to get it, but I can tell you what it is, if you want. It’s a cute surprise, I think. Nothing—nothing like what you got me.”

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you admit.

“No,” Bucky says. “No. Your gift—I will always be grateful for that. For the choice.” He kisses your temple. “But the point is, I got you something on the mission.”

Your eyebrows fly up. You’ve never gotten each other _ souvenirs _ before. “Oh?”

“It was busting up a black market ring in South Africa. All sorts of shit—weapons, tech, people and bodies.”

“The usual,” you supply.

“Yeah. But also diamonds. So I snagged something. For you.”

“I’ve got diamonds,” you remind him, then you shake your head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that that. Show me! I’m sure they’re better than what I’ve got, if _ you _ were picking it out.”

It’s a joke—Bucky’s tastes are far less haute couture than yours; far more everyday, generally speaking—but the little box that he puts between you takes your breath away.

It’s not a big box. Not big enough for a necklace, nor a bracelet. Only fit for the smallest earrings.

Or a ring.

You reach out with shaking hands. The black velvet is soft in your hands, shifting color as your fingers move across it.

“I wasn’t planning on giving it to you right now,” Bucky says quietly. He steps back, gives you space. Your eyes are glued to the box. “But… I don’t see the point in waiting.”

With the slightest pressure, the little velvet box snaps open. Tears spring to your eyes; your chin quivers; warmth blooms in your chest.

“Bucky,” you say, voice thick, “this is _ so much better _ than my diamonds.” You pull out the ring, slip it on your left ring finger, marvel at how it slides so neatly into place. Like it belongs there. “A perfect fit, too.”

You reach out your left hand and press it to Bucky’s chest, finally meeting his anxious gaze with a tearful smile on your face. The warmth in your chest is bright, strong—not a fire, not a flame, but the safe haven of long-burning coals, something that will last and never, ever burn out. You can see it in Bucky’s bright eyes, in his growing smile. You can feel it under your hand, thrumming in his heart. And yet it’s not new. This feeling has been here all along.

The diamond ring on your finger hasn’t changed a thing.

All the same, everything is different.

As usual in times of tension, of uncertainty, you default to your usual self.

“Were you seriously going to hold out on me, with something as nice as this?” you tease.

Bucky barks out a laugh. He steps close and cradles your face in his hands, drinking you in with darkening eyes even as he grins. “Who knows, maybe the second I saw you I woulda decided to give it to ya anyway. It’s easier to have some self-control when I’m not around my girl.”

You can’t help but smile even wider at that. Hell, even if you don’t get to fuck Bucky tonight—_as if_, with the way he’s looking at you—your cheeks are getting a delightful workout.

“What _ were _ you waiting for?” you ask.

“Oh, y’know.” Bucky’s cheeks tinge pink, adorably so. “A nicer outfit, I guess. Candlelit dinner, something like that where you’re all dolled up.”

“Sounds boring,” you say. You turn and kiss the palm of his hand, not even bothering to disguise your smirk. “And since when have we done anything half so normal as getting engaged over a candlelit dinner?”

He pretends to think it over, taps a finger on his chin—and then he whisks you into his arms as though he’s about to carry you over the threshold already. You dissolve into giggles, your heart fit to bursting and your arms wasting no time in winding around his neck so you can kiss him anew.

Bucky sighs happily into your mouth as he gently lowers you back onto the bed.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “Angels don’t need dolling up.”

“Don’t go calling me a doll now,” you tease. “Angel is pushing it already. And I have no interest in being compared to Chuckie.”

“Chuckie?” He stares blankly, and you shake your head and smile, tugging him over you.

“Doesn’t matter.”

But he pauses, eyebrows quirked. “Lemme guess—creepy murder doll?”

“Ugh, yes, now kiss me before I start to associate creepy murder dolls with engagement sex.”

Bucky laughs even as you kiss him, even as you worm your way out of your miniskirt, even as you push his sweatpants down, his boxer briefs, your panties. Then you put your hands on him, suck at that spot on the side of his neck, and he’s not laughing anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He sits on his haunches, straddling your hips, and whips his shirt over his head. You only see him stretched out and all bare for a moment, but it’s enough to have you whimpering before he kisses you again, hard and needy and intense, his hands rough on your breasts. Every scrape of his rough palm against your breasts, every tweak of your nipples, sends sparks straight between your legs. His cock throbs in your hand, and his thighs tighten around your hips as he grinds himself against your pelvis, his balls soaking up all the warm wetness dripping out of you.

All that, and it’s not enough.

You tilt your hips, guide him down your body, and the next time he ruts against you he slides in, slides _ home_. Both of you moan, your twin breathy voices lingering in the air between you. You’re staring at each other, Bucky’s hair a curtain around your face. Your walls clench around his twitching cock; your toes curl.

Bucky’s eyes are blown wide open, dark as the sea at night. You take his face in your hands, wipe at the sweat just beginning to bead on his brow—a thrill lances through you at how _ easily _ he comes undone for you, how eager he is for you, how perfect he is for you. You grind up against him, hissing with the sudden nudge of his cock against your g-spot.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s the idea,” Bucky manages.

You giggle, breathless and full and so light that you could fly. He’s smiling at you, his eyes drinking you in as yours do him. He pulls back til just the tip is inside you, then slowly, slowly, pushes back in. His every movement is familiar and right and so damn perfect that you want to cry, but you’re too happy, the diamond on your finger just catching the light from the bedside lamp as your bodies shift in delicious harmony. You slide your left arm around his neck until you can clink your ring—your _ ring_—against his metal arm.

“I’m gonna marry you,” you breathe.

Bucky groans and kisses you like he’s drinking you in. His thrusts speed up, the sparks and coals in your heart and your belly and between your legs lighting up as you press your heels into the small of his back, gasping into his mouth as your skin tingles all over. Every pump of his hips drives his pelvis against your clit. Your fingers scramble for purchase against his skin, his arm, as you start to fall past yourself and into him, desperation and stimulation bringing prickling tears to your eyes as you fight the urge to beg for more. As much as you want the release, you want to stay with him even more.

But Bucky’s too perceptive, even with his face so flushed and his breathing so ragged. He hooks your leg a little higher on his waist, stares in your eyes, and pushes in so deep you cry out with every merciless thrust.

“You’re gonna—_fuck—_you’re gonna marry me,” he grunts. You arch your back and moan so loud you wonder how soon they’ll kick you out.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant in time with his thrusts, voice breaking on every word, tears leaking out of your eyes as you struggle to keep them open. “God—Bucky—_f__u_—”

His cock swells even bigger, he hisses, and then Bucky buries his face against your neck and sucks so hard you see stars. His cock twitches, spurts of his cum setting fire to your cunt as every spark and coal and ember inside you bursts into flame. Your cry is unending as heat lances through you, throbbing and aching and so good, so good. The fireworks burn red-hot, yellow-hot, white-hot—

* * *

When you come to, the first thing you feel is a hand on your breast. You squirm, a hoarse whimper; it’s too much, too much…

The hand vanishes.

You turn your head, eyes still fogged, muscles twitching, limbs boneless. “B-Bucky?”

“I’m here.” A damp hand cups your cheek, and you nuzzle into it with a sigh. “Y’alright, angel?”

A giggles escapes you as your vision starts to clear. “What do you think?”

“Ha.”

You can just make out Bucky’s grin, and with another few blinks you can see him properly. Blue eyes, pupils still a little dilated. Dark hair damp against his forehead. Still gloriously naked, one leg bent up, his softening cock still shiny with evidence of your fuck. Of your lovemaking? You don’t know what to call it, and like hell if you care.

“Lemme get a washcloth,” Bucky murmurs. He drops a kiss on the tip of your nose, and you tilt your chin up to steal a proper kiss.

By the time he’s back, you can move a little. You twine your fingers in his free ones as he cleans you both up. Maybe it takes him longer without two hands, but he doesn’t even try to pull away. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, straying often to your ring.

Just soon enough, Bucky tosses the washcloth aside and tugs the blankets up over you both. The light clicks off, and he pulls you into his arms. You breathe him in, that wonderful smell of home. You’ve never felt this safe.

He’s quiet for a long while, and you’re half-asleep by the time he speaks.

“You mean it?” he whispers. “You’ll marry me?”

You nod, your cheek moving smooth against his chest. “Mhm. Will.”

“Damn,” he breathes. “You really are an angel.”

A silent giggle. Bucky tightens his arms around you, and you snuggle into him.

This is home now. Really and truly, this is home.


End file.
